Page 17 of Duty

Who cared?

It was the best way to get rid of a headache.

Win-win.

THREE

Strip clubs weren’t Andino’s typical scene—no judgement, he just tended to prefer his business to be done where distractions weren’t present in every corner. It was easier to get right down to the nitty, gritty of things when he didn’t have to worry about his associate being distracted by a piece of ass grinding her lower half against a metal pole while half naked, that’s all.

But, he had also let this meeting with the bookie go for two weeks while he decompressed in New Jersey for his little break. So, he didn’t have much of a choice but to get this done and over with as quickly as possible.

A strip club it was.

Safe Haven, actually.

Andino smirked a bit at the flashing neon sign above his head—Safe Haven was an interesting name choice for a business like this. He bet there were quite a few men who did find a safe haven within the walls of this joint. You know, as long as their wives didn’t find out they were there.

The large man dressed in all black with the word SECURITY stretched across his T-shirt stepped aside as Andino came to the front door. As this wasn’t one of his regular haunts, the security guard didn’t recognize him, and so he was subjected to allowing the man to do a quick pat down before he opened the door. He muttered something about Andino keeping his hands to himself, and to have a good evening.

Right.

He wasn’t here for the girls.

Andino did a lot of shit—mixing business and pleasure was absolutely not one of them. It never ended well.

All strip clubs tended to look the same if they weren’t an absolute shithole. Dark walls, shiny floors, and raised platforms with poles. Tables, booths, and a bar typically decorated in the same color scheme. Dim lighting.

Andino was—maybe even pleasantly—surprised to find Safe Haven was none of those things. Oh, sure, the floor shined, but it wasn’t simple tile or shined cement. Light hardwood, actually. The walls were covered in artwork, and neon signs that spelled out different names, places, and even the signature Safe Haven name of the joint.

The tables and booths were set just far enough away from the platforms for the dancers that there was no way a patron could possibly touch a girl during a dance unless he practically climbed up on stage. He bet the five bouncers he easily counted on the floor made sure that not one of the girls were bothered, either.

The lighting wasn’t too bright, but it didn’t give the appearance of shadiness, either. Chrome fixtures, and bare bulbs. Even the inverted lighting over the long, built-in bar with the gleaming bottles on the back shelves were bright overhead.

In the corner, a popular New York DJ had set up his booth and system, and was currently in the midst of finishing up a song Andino had heard the guy play in a hugely popular night club a month before.

Instead of a bunch of older men—oh, sure, there were a few of those here, too—it was mostly people in their twenties and thirties drinking, and watching the show. Nothing about the business gave off the strip club vibe.

Young.

Fresh.

Fun, sure.

Not dirty, seedy, or anything else someone might think when they were told women danced nude. One might think this place was just a bar.

If it weren’t for the women.

Two girls danced on raised stages—one toward the far end with a pole, and one closer to the entrance without a pole where Andino had come in. He passed them a cursory look, but quickly searched the floor for the one man he had come here to see. It was just easier to handle this particular bookie when Andino went looking for him, and didn’t demand the man clear his schedule for him.

Frankly, Andino would have the right to demand the bookie do exactly that, but … Nathaniel wasn’t so cooperative. He only let that shit pass because Nathaniel was a damn good money maker, and rarely had any problems.

Maybe that was why Andino had been so surprised two weeks earlier when he had to go in, and do a favor for the bookie by removing one of the guy’s biggest debtors. That shit just wasn’t common with Nathaniel, and damn, every bookie had one or two people who never seemed to fucking pay their debts when the time came.

Never this bookie, though.

Until the lawyer, anyway.

Soon, Andino found the bookie in question sitting at a small, single table in one of the only shaded areas of the joint. Beside him, a table full of twenty-somethings laughed over drinks, and swayed a bit to the fast tempo the DJ switched to in the next section. Really, the whole place was full of people—every table was at capacity, or pretty close to it.